Laissez-Faire Love
by oh-cripe-my-fish
Summary: England and France, during a rare time of peace, discuss the relationship between their bosses where a "bed did not separate them." and England is uncomfortable at how comfortable France is about it. FrUk. Features France coming out, because apparently England was still in doubt about him not being inherently straight. Rated M; warning's inside.


**Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine and trust me, it is SO much better this way.**

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 _ **Laissez-Faire Love**_

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 _ **Summary** : England and France, during a rare time of peace, discuss the relationship between their bosses where a "bed did not separate them." and England is uncomfortable at how comfortable France is about it. FrUk. Features France coming out, because apparently England was still in doubt about him not being inherently straight. Rated M._

 _ **ANs:** My take on the alliance between France and England during the reigns of Richard I of England and Philip II of France, in which "a bed did not separate them" according to sources. It may have been a customary way of keeping alliances strong and was very much expected during the time (or was it, really?), but still, I'm going to ignore this and conclude it's still very, very gay. As Personified Nations who are very, very close to their monarchs, Francis and Arthur know better. Here we have an awkward Arthur and the usual flamboyant Francis who is only starting to explore his diverse sexuality for the first time, followed by lots and lots of Fruk throughout time. I GOT CARRIED AWAY I'M SORRY._

 ** _Warnings:_** _Really just our boys doing the dirty in the section * **1715 AD** , skip that if you don't want to read - it was unintentional. I can't remember how much swearing there is in this? Some, anyway. Probable dirty humour and implied explicate activities yo. Also rated for Arthur being careless with blueberries and pistols._

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 **THE YEAR 1187 AD**

"We have a problem," England starts, getting straight to the point as France and he settle on the lush grass sprouting under a tree far enough from the French Palace to ensure no one would overhear them. Not many people came by the periphery of the evergreen, wild and overgrown forest, so they had both rightly assumed it was a safe place for the two of them to situate themselves.

At his words, Francis falters mid-process of sitting down and scrambles to his feet again, whirling around on Arthur with his hands on his hips and a pout on his lips as the Englishman gets comfy on the ground beneath him, wriggling in his cloak and armour as if it would anchor him into the dirt.

"Excuse-moi?"

England pulls a little bag of blueberries from his pocket and looks up at his consistent foe, current reluctant ally, patiently and purposefully popping a berry into his mouth slowly with furrowed brows, bewildered at how disgruntled France seems.

"...What?" he presses after he swallows down the berry and Francis sighs in exasperation.

"I do not appreciate you calling this a problem, Caterpillar brows! It isn't a problem with me at all." Francis discloses haughtily to him with a sniff and a swish of his hair. "We should not interfere."

Unlike Arthur, Francis wore the complete opposite of a worn, dull and practical cloak around protective metal armour. The Frenchman didn't sport any heavy armour at all, and was once again showcasing his ability to lead the frontline of Europe's forever changing fashion. Currently he was dressed in the finest of detailed cloths. His tunic and bloomers were a faint lilac and billowing combo of gold, blue and white trims and stitching, his tights were also a pristine white along with the ribbon in his hair. Arthur hated him for how impeccably dressed he always seemed to be.

Arthur's two big bushy brows shot up in surprise at Francis' odd reaction. He'd been expecting Francis to at least share the same sentiment as him on the matter.

"They are French and English, Frog. In case you have forgotten, our monarchs aren't supposed to engage in friendly camaraderie,never mind actually- You know... engage in-" the Englishman stutters, cheeks tingeing a rosy red at trying to put forth the implication. While France looked to be in his late teens in comparison to a human, England was still young, having been the physical image of a young moody adolescent for decades yet having a mind much more wise and knowledgeable, as to be expected of a being that was just over 600 years old, but it seemed the intimate act their kings were committing was still a taboo subject for the nation and France found that absolutely adorable! He may only be 100 years older than England, but France still prided himself in his attempts to mature and grow up quicker than the countries surrounding him, including England. It was something he liked to remind England of constantly, that he was older, teasing England until the young nation threatened him with his bow and arrow.

With an exaggerated sigh, France finally plops down on the grass beside England and he rolls his eyes in a perfect arc. "Mon Dieu, it is only intercourse Sourcils. It's one of the base instincts of the body, don't you know? There's no need to be so bashful- AIÏE!"

Francis' complaining is interrupting by a perfectly aimed blueberry to the eye, and when he's finally able to open both of them again, Arthur is glaring at him, a hint of incredulousness in those green eyes of his.

"But one is _English_ , and the other is _French_! They are kings! Our bosses! _And two men no less!_ " England argues, with a queasy expression and tense shoulders. It worried him that Francis had a conflicting opinion with Arthur's on their bosses shagging.

"We should not interfere!" Francis reiterates, steadfast. He folds his arms in a prissy manner and lifts his nose high, looking at everywhere but the Englishman, and adds, "This is not my nor your business, oui? And why should we care that they are men? They are not bothering anyone! It is not so wrong for two people, no matter their sex, to be in love? To be-?"

"Wait France, shut it for a second!" Arthur interrupts, frustrated. "Answer me this..." He then begins cautiously, and the Frenchman provides the Englishman with his full attention. Albeit reluctantly. "You're homosexual, aren't you?" Arthur asks abruptly with wide, pressing eyes. It wasn't hard to read between the lines, why else would the Frenchman be so eager to defend the extracurricular activities of their monarchs? And it shouldn't come as a surprise to Arthur, really, when he thought about the plethora of flirtatious, ambiguous and suggestive comments the Frenchman was constantly spewing. Briefly considering that the amount of ladies Francis chased had to be compensating for something, Arthur pushed the thought from his mind.

"That's why you're so keen to accept this, isn't it?" he presses when France doesn't cease staring at him in prolonged silence.

Francis' gaze surveys him for a second longer, biting the inside of his check and weighing up the consequences of a proper confession, admittance, that yes, Arthur had read him like a book – well, almost. He'd been crushing on both men _and_ woman for quite a while now and he was very proud of it, never had been in denial about it, had been at peace with it from the very beginning, but the memory of his human infatuation being executed a decade ago still plagued him. Careless, is what they'd both been with their discreet affections, and his darling had risked his life by offering up some brief, loving gestures in public, a kiss to his cheek, a brush of a hand, all because he loved Francis far too much.

Unlike Francis, humans stayed dead, and Francis had to live with the guilt and grief since. He should've known the young man so much longer than he did, even if they could never have a happy ending what with Francis being immortal.

In the end, he only really kept quiet about his attraction to men in the hopes of sparing the lives of his male humans, learning a plethora of things from that one dreadful experience.

But Francis was also taken aback my Arthur's obliviousness. While Francis ensured secrecy about his lack of preference around humans, he'd been different around his fellow nations, and this is why Arthur's question was odd. Wasn't it obvious that Francis wasn't exclusively into woman? Surely Francis' flirtations, with Roderich or Antonio or any other nation for that matter, surely they hadn't went right over Arthur's head? Maybe his adversary was much more clueless than Francis had originally thought.

"I wouldn't quite say that, mon ennemi." France says, meeting England's awaiting eyes, "I love women as much as I love men."

England narrowed his eyes, shifting in his spot, obviously uncomfortable, but he let France continue.

"Truthfully, I fall in love with people and their personalities. Their unique beauty and their imperfections. I fall in love regardless of sex, race, religion. Love is love, nobody should be denied it Angleterre, and when you live as long as we do? We should indulge in it ... And I _will_ indulge in it, when I dream about it so much. It is not healthy to stifle such emotion."

England sighs and settles back against the tree, the only sign that he's uneasy coming in the form of the absent fiddling he's doing with the end of his dull, practical coat. He picks at the grass a moment later, focusing on the horizon as France shifts beside him, eyes following England's to the setting sun. France wonders if he's spooked England into silence.

"You're bloody weird, and your sappiness is insufferable." England eventually grumbles, now more than willing to let the matter of their monarchs go. This wasn't a conversation he was comfortable having with France, his heart growing heavier the longer they lingered on the subject.

France wonders why the English nation looks so troubled as he says it, as if the words are sour on the tongue. He's not an open-book, one of the many differences he and France seem to have, but France had known him long enough to guess that the Englishman had more than a few issues when regarding matters of the heart. No heart can be spared from tragedy when it beats for as long as theirs does.

"You do not look at a man and think about his beauty, Angleterre? Or fall in love with his voice when you hear it, as you would a woman?" France's eyes are distant and focused on the skyline and he takes a breath. England doesn't fill the silence with an answer, and the Frenchman rambles on, "I once loved a man, at first I did not know it, but the more we spoke and the more I sampled the warm and kind colours of his heart and soul, I became enraptured. You have never felt that?"

England peels his dazed eyes from the side of France's pretty face, tries to take in the sight of the red bleeding into the orange, and the Orange fading into the yellow and ignore the blood rushing in his ears and the heat in his cheeks. He swallows heavily, ignoring the tightness in his chest and sudden dryness in his mouth.

"No, not for a man."

Not for a mortal man is what he actually means.

* * *

 ***THE YEAR 1715 AD**

"J-Jesus Bloody Christ, frog. I could get used to this." croaks Arthur lowly into his ear, relishing the sensations exciting every inch of his body. Francis laughs breathlessly at the irony of the insulting pet name and lifts his Pelvis higher as Arthur's lips meld with his again, needy, too hasty and too clumsy. Francis's hands slide across sweat slicked skin in a struggle to get a grip on the Englishman above him. French fingers ghost over the 'P' burnt onto the back of Arthur's neck and then they fist in straggled hair smelling overwhelming of ocean air and torched port infrastructure.

"I'll keep that in mind and h-hold that against y-you," Francis somehow manages to say against Arthur's relentless lips, the Frenchman writhing and ignorant to the state of his lavish bed sheets that matched the rest of Francis' fancy ship of indulgence, filled with only the best of things. He sails with so much fortune many mistake him for the king of France.

And Arthur, his adversary, his fated, beloved opponent, looming over him, pushing Francis' legs wider- his breath reeks of rum, skin tastes of salt, unkempt hair uncut and smelling of stale ocean air. Chaos suits Arthur, Francis thinks, splaying his hands across the taught and flexing muscles of Arthur's flushed back, sprinkled in freckles from manning the ship and hoisting the sails shirtless in sweltering Caribbean sun, appreciating everything Arthur hides under his clothes with lusting hungry eyes. Gone is Arthur's carefully cultivated poise, his manners, the enunciation to his voice. In the throes of pleasure, he's stripped bare of everything.

Something as simple as knowing that he's responsible for the unravelling of his stiff old English enemy's composure does things to Francis' body no one has ever managed to do before. The way Francis feels in that moment, it's worrying, but wondrous.

Arthur inhales deeply into Francis's hair, growls at the delicate smell of jasmine and magnolias, and before he can help himself, he kisses the Frenchman so fiercely that he busts the voyageur's swollen bottom lip. Francis bites hard on the end of Arthur's imploring tongue as revenge. The two aren't discouraged at the taste of blood filling their mouths. If anything, it spurs them on as it always has; as it has with swords and shields on horseback, firing cannons and pistols at sea, and now; disarmed in the bedroom.

Arthur is incredibly rough and unrefined, but Francis doesn't mind. It's still somewhat new to him, lying back and taking another man's girth, doing very little work for the same sated result, when he's usually the one taking charge.

There was no need for Arthur to announce how close he was to finishing. Francis senses it in the way he suddenly grinds his teeth, head hanging low, mouth close to Francis's ear as hard, rattling and warm breaths expel, ragged, through his nose in puffs to cool Francis burning shoulder, the occasional strangled grunt slipping out. The rogue English privateer thrusts harder, as hard as he can for as long as he can- as if he actually _wants_ to please Francis, a near foreign concept between the two enemies. And Francis seems more than pleased, better- completely spoiled, face contorting, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and represses his wanton moans. The two are aware of the occupied deck above the Captain's chambers, Francis' crew drinking anything alcoholic they could find and having the time of it in the moonlight. Both captain's below didn't particular care about being heard, but they didn't particularly care for a rowdy half-cut crew of burly, sexually deprived men listening in on and harmonizing their sex with howls of laughter and cheers of encouragement. Francis knew his crew too well, they either got off on listening in or got off on ruining the mood. They were a unique bunch; anyone else would have the two captains arrested or mutinied for sodomy.

Arthur was challenging Francis's ability to remain quiet. The decorative headboard bangs into the timber wall of Francis' quarters as the Frenchman yells out, his sweet spot unable to take the abuse any longer. Tossing his head back in a flurry of gold and glistening drops of sweat accentuated by the flickering candlelight, Francis almost forgets to breathe as he dirties Arthur and his abdomens. Arthur's pace immediately falters at the sight under him and feeling of Francis clenching tight around him. With throaty and raw yet quiet and desperate curses, he comes moments after, rides it out until exhaustion and gravity force him down onto Francis's heaving chest.

Their comedown is not met with silence as they would have preferred, preferring to listen to the slowing thuds of their beating hearts as the warmth that had filled them and encapsulated them ebbs away with their orgasms. Pirates, no matter how fancy, don't do privacy. Roaring sounds above them, the crew hearing their end. A few shout down smart ass comments amidst the stomping of feet and lewd howls.

" _Cannon's been fired men_!" One fellow shouts in French, enticing a roar of laugher from the rest.

Francis laughs tiredly, inhaling deep and brushing soaking strands of hair from his forehead. Arthur feels the amused vibrations in Francis' chest under his left check.

" _You hear that!? That's was the sound of Captain finding El Dorado! Nice going_!"

More cackling, more cheering. Francis bites his busted lip, smiling despite the sting. He adores his boys, he really did.

" _I want whatever booty Fran's been getting!_ " Another jokes.

Arthur was less amused than Francis at the racket above them. "For God's Sake," the Englishman grumbles. Rolling off Francis with heaving breaths and wiping his wet forehead with the back of his wrist, he then stretches over the edge of the bed and snatches up one of his many pistols from the floor. Before Francis even knows he's holding the gun, Arthur's fired three shots through the ceiling. It promptly shuts the French crew up when one bullet catches a man's foot. The howls of pain bring a smile to Arthur's lips, as does the eruption of more merry laughter at the unfortunate man's expense. Pirates don't do privacy, nor morality either, it seems.

"They're bigger bloody degenerates that my lot." Arthur comments aloofly.

Francis stares pointedly at Arthur's smoking pistol. They both make eye contact, Arthur tosses the gun over his shoulder and shrugs. It lands on oak with a clatter. "What? He'll live. "

Arthur's surprised when Francis starts laughing.

"I've never thought of doing that before~!"

"Of course you wouldn't have. You enjoy voyeurism in all of it's forms. Whether it be you watching, or you in the spotlight, attention whore," Arthur smirks and lies back on the other side of the bed, sprawling himself out as if he owned the place. Francis props his head up on his elbow and gazes lazily at his enemy. Neither felt an immediate need to clean themselves. Arthur catches Francis wandering, shameless eyes travelling down his naked body and lifts a knee, stretching his arms up and behind his head, showcasing himself.

"An attention whore," Arthur repeats, amusement curling his lips. "And a bloody Pirate, too. It made my day when I heard, you know? That _you_ were pillaging and plundering, of all people. Laughed for hours."

Francis tuts, slapping Arthur lightly on his sticky flushed chest. "Now now Angleterre, I'm _not_ a pirate, I'm a _privateer_."

"Same difference." Is Arthur's offhanded retort as his snickers tapper off. He lets Francis trail his fingers across his chest, watches his inquisitive fingers linger on a few curious raised scars before they move on. He knows Francis is trying to work out which ones he was at fault for and what other nations made the rest.

"The difference between you and I is that I am always homebound..." Francis says after a calm contemplative silence between them, pulling back his hand then. Arthur watches it rest limply on the honeyed skin of Francis's own jutting hip, and he wonders how the hand of the enemy can do such sweet things. He wants that bittersweet touch back on his skin again. The sudden appeal of Francis is alarming, but Arthur can live with the lust. "I'm welcomed back to my country _et mon roi_ with open arms, a large stipend and a feast. You are a castaway, non?"

"You have a point there." Arthur agrees.

With a contemplatively furrowed brow, Francis adds, "And I can't abandon all hygiene practices like you, so of course I'm not a pirate."

"Oi, a bit of dirt never harmed anybody!" Arthur retaliates.

"No? But the ghastly stench of your pirates with lime disease and gangrene harm my sensitive nostrils," Francis isn't irritated in the slightest, nor annoyed, there's a smile on his reddened lips as he said it, a post sex sparkle in his eye. He waits to see if Arthur takes the bait, and when he doesn't, he doesn't reveal his surprise. Instead they banter on, neither making a move to leave, enjoying this strange new flavour they're finding in one another, joking with one another and talking as if they've never warred.

And before they know it, they've been talking for hours - albeit they end up talking about everyone but themselves - yet it's one step better then fighting – For hours they chat, tease, banter, stark naked in the candlelight, until the soft sounds of lapping waves and the gentle rocking of the docked ship lull them to sleep.

Come morning, they aren't romantic- probably never will be, not when they wage war against each other very few years, directly or indirectly. Romance is an impossible notion, and Francis does not wish for it, especially not with Arthur. But when Arthur kisses a dozing Francis goodbye as he slides out of bed in the morning, throwing on his clothes, and gathers up his artillery belt of shotguns, knives and a holster containing one the most breathtakingly crafted swords the world has ever seen, Francis' heart feels a tiny bit different for the man. A seed is sown, something small. He doesn't realise it's there at first, and for decades after, as it germinates slowly but surely in his chest, it remains that way. Unnoticed.

By the time of the signing of the Entente Cordiale in 1904, a leafy shoot glimpses the sun, and when the peace treaty of 1919 was being signed by their respective leaders in the palace of Versailles' grandiose Hall of Mirrors, England and France are nowhere to be found. They instead grab for each other hurriedly, cling to the other desperately, kiss hard and hasty in elation behind a locked door somewhere in what was once the Sun King's home, bathed in the warm June sunlight pouring in from an open window. It's then that the buds of colour begin to bloom.

* * *

 **THE YEAR 2008 AD  
**

"You're the only man..." Arthur says out of the blue, lowering his cup of tea from his lips, caught up in his memory of that day all those centuries ago, sitting under a tree and eating his little sack of berries as France flounced about in a frilly, girly tunic. BBC's afternoon news plays faintly in the background. The recession is peaking, states the reporter, and the pound's value is flooring. The housing market is collapsing.

"I am?" France is honestly puzzled at the meaning behind the odd statement; after he sets down his fashion magazine, he scratches his beard and runs through the possible scenarios it could apply to. "If you're cheating on me, I'm _not_ okay with it, but I might find it in my heart to forgive you- as long as all three of us can have a go at trying something new? But I want to be the middle man-"

"I'm not trying to convince you you're the only man I'm seeing presently you perverted idiot!" England bristled. "God. What I see in you, I'll never be able to make head or tail of it."

Arthur smacks the laughing Frenchman with his folded newspaper and sighs at how lax Francis seemed to be... he wasn't a normal man, one of the reasons Arthur loved him so dearly.

"Then what is it you mean?" Francis queries with a curious survey of Arthur, raising his brows and awaiting an answer as he takes a long, slow sip of wine.

"What I'm saying- is that you are the only man I have ever shagged in my entire life as a nation." The Englishman clarifies. "When you asked me all those centuries ago whether or not I've felt anything for a man... I have never felt anything for any man but you..."

Staring wordlessly at England as the sentence sinks in, a dribble of wine runs down Francis' chin when his mouth attempts to fall open, it startles him into smacking a hand over his mouth to contain the rest as he swallows his mouthful of wine properly. England's brow lifts in amusement, and his cheeks dust a little red at Francis' reaction.

"You've only ever been with me? No other man?" Francis blinks owlishly.

"I've shagged you and only you," England reiterates. "Out of all the other humans and nations. Romantically put, I know," the Englishman says sarcastically, pulling a tissue from the box on the coffee table and handing it to France. "Romance is your area of expertise, not mine, unfortunately."

France mops himself up, drying his chin and beard, dumbfounded.

"I don't know if I should be flattered or if I should feel regretful." Francis admits with wide eyes. "There is so much more out there you can learn, can _sample_ , from men better than me."

Arthur shakes his head and smiles at him, raising a devious eyebrow and setting aside his cup of tea to stand and approach Francis. "That's the thing; there are no men better than you."

"But you wouldn't know that because you _haven't browsed around_." France challenges, leaning back as England slips onto the sofa beside him, removing the wine from France's hand and sliding it across the glass coffee table, out of the aghast Frenchman's reach.

"You say that as if you think I haven't tried."

Francis brows are in his hairline. "Oh, you have?"

"Could it be that you want any old excuse to get rid of me?" The Englishman challenges with a wry look, inching closer. "Insisting I haven't had enough _sexcapades_ with other men is a _horrid_ reason, by the way." He adds sardonically, lip curling. France chuckles and shuffles closer, wrapping an arm around Arthur's shoulders and planting a fleeting kiss to his temple.

"Didn't you know that without you I cannot possibly go on?"

"What a grim fellow." Arthur retorts, lifting a hand to fondle the Frenchman's stubble. "There's been woman, plenty of them," Arthur confesses then, and France leans into England's personal space, listening with intense curiosity. It's not often that Arthur willingly opens the doors to his heart, but the Frenchman knows what's coming next, he can feel it in the air, he can see what Arthur wants in his lustrous green gaze with specks of hazel, and knows too well that Arthur never abandons perfectly drinkable tea for no good reason.

"Human women. Nations don't cut it." The Englishman ponders on quietly, considerately. "And no man or nation but you, it's so... _strange_." His emerald eyes flickering to Francis' lips, his hand reaches up to tenderly brush Francis' silken hair behind his ear. Warm fingers curl around the back of Arthur's neck in response, narrowly missing the 'p' branding, a gentle thumb grazing back and forth over the raised scaring of one or two guillotine executions in generations past, that same thumb brushing in and out of the Englishman's hairline, making his skin rise.

Nowadays, they're so bloody romantic behind closed doors it's almost laughable that they continue to fight so fervently in public, but the two of them are enjoying their little century old secret too much to make an announcement, and old habits die hard. Fighting comes so naturally to them.

"We don't have time," France murmurs regretfully. England's hand is now trailing up the inside of his thigh and he loathes their time restraints even more than he already does. "Germany will surely come knocking if the host nation doesn't show up for the second half of the conference..."

"Let him come," England's hand untucks France's shirt tantalizingly slowly from his Burberry suit pants, breathing in his Chanel cologne as he presses closer. "I'll promise you to be quick."

If the warm ghosting breath across France's ear doesn't drive him mad, he definitely loses all composure when England hand slips along his abdominals, finger tips dipping daringly low and slipping under the hem of both his trousers and his Calvin Kleins.

Entangling themselves in one another, Arthur smiles scandalously into the desiring kiss- War after war, fight after fight and here they are: Still together, and his heart hopes it remains that way forever.

* * *

England's head is resting on France's off-putting (or rather, charmingly) hairy chest as his neighbouring nation strokes the length of his back, fingers soothingly ruining over the dips of his spine as they catch their breaths, wrapped up snugly in thick quilts, when a thought occurs to him.

"Wait a minute, what was that earlier about me cheating on you?" England mumbles, shifting up onto his elbow to look down a France with a great deal of effort.

France groans at the rush of cold air filling the sudden space between them, he yawns and peeks an eye open sleepily, "Hm? I can't remember."

"Were you implying I could earn your forgiveness by inviting you for a bloody threesome!?" Arthur asks indignantly, sitting up completely.

Francis smiles up at him, and Arthur briefly wonders if his faeries have cast an enchantment on him to make him feel so contented and _complete_ with Francis like this.

"It was a joke mon lap-!"

"No it bloody well was not!" Arthur raves despite his sudden need to smother France in kisses again, as if he hadn't just been doing enough of that twenty minutes before. "Would you think about cheating on me if my forgiveness could be earned in the same- why are you laughing!?"

Francis tries to swallow his chuckling and fails miserably. It makes his heart swell and he feels giddy under Arthur's irked green irises. He was such a funny, infuriatingly adorable man.

"I would not cheat on you, calm down mon amour. Breathe." France soothes, hand resting on Arthur's bare hip lovingly.

"... and I hope you know that I would _never_ cheat on you. I have values." Arthur says resolutely, brows low over his eyes as he glares down the Frenchman .

"I do know." France assures him, sitting up to Arthur's height. "You know I'm very against committing adultery," he adds, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Buuuut, _mais._ I would only consider cheating on you if it was an identical replica of you with plucked eyebrows~"

"You Bastard-!" Arthur straightens up, as if a bird with ruffled feathers. He snatches up a pillow, ready to assault the Frenchman.

"But a lovable, gorgeous one, no?" Francis flashes a smile and shrugs as if he can't help how pretty he is. At the sight of the pillow, the Frenchman holds up his hands in the universal language of surrender. "And admit it cher, you would do the same if it were a replica of me with less body hair."

Arthur falls silent, face relaxing into a thoughtful expression. "... I... cannot disagree with that." And as peace is achieved, their smiles widen as Francis sits up quickly, flips Arthur over in one swift movement and crawls over the top of him. Arthur lies back and gets comfy, grinning and inviting Francis for a second round.

The buzzing phone in a union jack phone case flashing Germany's caller ID on England's nightstand remains untouched for half an hour longer.

* * *

 **LE FIN**

* * *

 ** _End notes: (I like to ramble BEWARE lmao)_**

 _ **\- Laissez-faire** – not to be taken as a literal translation from French, instead I used the political/economic phrase referring to things taking their own course and working themselves out over time when left alone, a heads up to Francis and Arthur getting on splendidly when they're on their own and their relationship improving over time with wars becoming more infrequent between them – less political interference. Looool I hella suck at giving titles. I'm sorry!_

 _ **\- Richard I and Phillip II** may have been romantically involved, they may not have, but in my opinion they were. Many media articles claim it to be a "political act", even though they provide no other examples of such historically significant royals doing as such, and many say that "bed sharing was essential and common among lower classes to keep warm." But kings were not lower class, were not short of beds, and could have as many beds as they pleased. I honestly don't think they were required to share their beds with anyone but the queen or mistress, and while servants got to sleep at the foot of the bed as a reward, it still doesn't prove that bed sharing wasn't sexual as these media articles claim it to be- it was certainly sexual when it came to siring children. Not only this, but Richard rarely spent time with his wife, who he supposedly met while in a homosexual relationship with her brother, he sired no legitimate children and spent more time in France than England during his reign. Philip however had plenty of wives, but from what I gather he had problems with most of them – one he disliked so much that he did not let her become queen and insisted they had not consummated. Even if both had wives and legitimate/illegitimate children, that's not sure proof that each were straight, as history contains many undeniable accounts of gay and bisexual kings and royals having wives and children- it was essential to succession and the royal line. My favourite example is Prince Philippe, duc d'Orleans and brother of King Louis the Fourteenth, who was described as "unabashedly homosexual". Everyone knew of his infamous male lover Chevalier de Lorraine, including his brother, but he still was married twice and had multiple children with his second wife. In regards to Richard and Phillip's relationship, one contemporary interpretation of the time, from Roger de Hovenden who knew the kings well, said that they "sat at the same table everyday and ate from the same dish", that "At night a bed did not separate them" that the King of France "Loved [the Duke, Richard] as his own soul" and that Richard was astonished at the "passionate love". Sounds pretty gay to me, lol. Besides, it's much more curious and fun to think of it as a passionate, secretive love affair that eventually went sour, resulting in bitter war after bitter war between France and England._

 _ **\- El Dorado** – a term that has many variations and forms, it's inspiration being a tribal chief who allegedly covered himself in gold dust and submerged himself in a lake as part of a ritual, or it went something like that anyway, resulting in the tale of a mystical and lost city of gold, come to be known as El Dorado. Privateers and pirates believed it to be in South America, especially in and around Columbia – the Spanish Empire were first responsible for the El Dorado myth, and the myth then spread and encouraged many expeditions from Europe to South America in the 1600s and 1700s._

 _ **\- The Sun King** – Or le Roi Soleil in French, is Louis the Fourteenth of France. He remains one of the most influential European Sovereigns of all time, completely transforming France from the moment he began his reign in 1643. He instigated a revolutionary era of art, fashion, literature, science and medicine that so greatly influenced Europe, resulting in the Golden Era of France. He was also infamous for building the lavish Palace of Versailles, that at one point was home to around 60,000 noble people and his entire court, which was controversial as it meant he did not rule from Paris, and his many affairs with his multitude of mistresses that led to him fathering almost 20 children. Drama ahoy. I'm fascinated by him, truthfully._

 _So there we have it, I have sinned. It was inevitable and only a matter of time before I wrote smut. Anyway fellow FrUk shippers, have some smut dusted in fluff to hopefully quench your cravings a little. It was originally just the first section of medieval France and England , but my mind wandered and my hands blindly followed. I'm disappointed in myself, but I spent too much time on this fic not to post it loooooooooooooool cry for me please._

 _Au revoir! And I hope to be back with some more FrUk stuff in the future! Mwah~_


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